


Confessions

by irismustang



Category: Burn Notice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-15
Updated: 2008-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irismustang/pseuds/irismustang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona still wants to talk about their relationship. Michael can't get out of it this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to bewize for the encouragement.
> 
> Written for templemarker

 

 

The rattling sound of the truck moving over the road was loud, almost deafening, to the two unwilling inhabitants of the cargo box. There was only a tiny sliver of light coming from where the roller-door did not sit flush to the tracks, and that was barely enough for Michael to see his own nose, let alone the handcuffs connecting him to Fiona. Add in the zip-tie that kept him firmly in place against the bolted-down shelves that lined the box, and he knew he was going to have one hell of a time getting them free before they arrived wherever they were being taken. 

Michael just needed to focus. He had to stay calm, and think, and try to ignore Fiona's harsh cough in the darkness. He had fought with her not to come, had pleaded, begged, threatened, but to no avail. He'd had a bad feeling about this job from the start, but she hadn't listened. 

It shouldn't have been a tough one. It was simple, direct, and almost too easy. That probably should have been his first clue that something wasn't going to add up to a happy ending. Then there had been the ambush. 

In all of the confusion, Fiona had sworn she felt something stab her, but she had ignored it to continue the fight. It wasn't until they were home and the delivery had come that they realized she hadn't imagined things. 

Seriously, who the hell used poisons anymore? They weren't in an Ian Fleming novel, for God's sake. 

Despite that new bit of information, Fiona had been determined to be his back up on this, and being sick hadn't slowed her down in the least. 

He had to admit that even with a fever, fighting off a more severe illness; Fiona was still someone he trusted with his life. 

Now, if they were to believe the story, Michael only had twenty-four hours to change his plans, his loyalties, and do his job or he'd never get the antidote to save her. He was currently in hour six, with eighteen to go.

He tried not to think about what that meant for him, for them. He had been down that road too many times before. Going down it now would not help him get them out of this, the job done, and her home to rest. 

"How's it going, Fi?" He asked, grimacing at the cough that seemed to come deep from within her chest. That stint with them locked in the freezer had not helped her one bit. 

"Great," Fiona answered cheerfully. "Having a wonderful time, thanks for asking."

"Fi," Warningly. She knew what he was asking. 

"I'm alright, Michael," She answered, turning her hand over slightly to let their fingers brush together. 

"I told you to stay home, didn't I tell you to stay home?" He asked, frustration coloring his every word as he tried to get the zip-tied wrist free. 

"Have I ever listened to you before?" Fiona asked sensibly. 

"A man can dream." 

When no answer came, he started feeling around for anything within reach that would let him either pick the cuff's lock, or cut the zip-tie. He had only been searching for a minute when he heard Fiona inhale, and he braced himself for another round of coughing.

He wasn't expecting her to say what she did.

"Michael, where do you see our relationship going?"

His hand jerked underneath the shelves, slamming his wrist into the hard metal edge, and he cursed, pulling his hand free. "What?"

"Our relationship," Fiona repeated. "Where are we going with this?"

He counted silently to ten before he trusted himself to not yell at her. "Fi, we are locked in a cargo box, you are slowly being poisoned because someone I've never met has a crazy vendetta against me, and you want to talk about our relationship?"

"Do you have anything to pick the lock with?" Fiona asked. 

"I'm working on it."

"What about the tie? Anything to cut it?"

"Not yet."

"So we're stuck, for now, yes?"

Michael ground his teeth together. "Yes."

"Perfect time to talk, don't you think?"

"No." 

"What if you don't fix things this time?" She asked, tone simple and curious. "What if this is it?"

"Don't, Fi," Michael warned, his struggle turning frantic for just a moment before he could calm himself again. "I'll get it. Never let you down, have I?"

"Dublin." 

One word and the memories returned on a fresh wave of regret. 

"Fi, I explained-"

"Doesn't change how it felt, Michael," She interrupted, voice so soft. "I loved you."

"I loved you too," Michael admitted.

"I love you." No past tense. She did, and she couldn't let it stay unspoken and ignored between them. 

"We were miserable, Fi," Michael said, giving up on his attempts to get free. She wanted to talk, and she was right. He had nothing to get them out of this right now and if things took a turn for the worst, he'd hate himself even more if he didn't give her this one thing. 

He just had to censor himself. He wouldn't bare his soul; confess everything, just for a maybe. Too often you thought you would die, gave up your deepest secrets, and then everything was fine and it was so hard to look someone in the eye the next day after they admitted sleeping with a Mickey Mouse blanket. 

Thankfully, he had been reassigned the next week and hadn't had to wonder if that blanket was tucked under the other agent's bed with his pistol. 

"We had good times," Fiona argued.

"I still have scars from your idea of a good time." Michael's attempt to touch one of the scars was aborted quickly as the cuff around his wrist reminded him he couldn't just wave his arms around like a fool. 

"You weren't complaining when I made them up to you," Fiona reminded, and her voice would have been more playful, sultry, if it didn't sound so tired. 

"No one in their right mind would complain when they have you naked in bed with them," Michael answered. 

"But you still left." 

"I had to!" Michael snapped. "Dammit, Fi, what part of that don't you understand? They knew! My cover was blown; it was too damn dangerous for you! I had to go!"

Fiona went very still against him, and he grimaced, waiting for the full fury of an angry Fiona. Yelling at her never ended well, and usually resulted in a new cut or bruise.

He waited for a hit that never came, but her fingers did curl around his. "You loved me?" She asked in a tiny voice. 

Michael sighed. "Yeah, Fi. I really do."

Her hand tightened around his, almost too tight, and he wondered if he had said something wrong, or if she were getting worse. She hadn't coughed in several minutes now, but he knew it wasn't because she was cured. 

"Fi-"

"You said 'do'," she whispered. 

"I... what?" Michael wasn't following.

"You said 'I really do', not 'I really did'," she elaborated. "Present, not past."

There it was. His Mickey Mouse confession. "I do," he confirmed. "Why do you think I try to keep you out of this shit?"

"Why do you think I get myself into it?" Fiona countered. "Why do you think I would come down to Florida for an ex-lover who ran away in the middle of the night and not cause irreparable bodily harm?"

"Why did you come?" Michael asked. She had given a flippant answer that first morning, but he had never really known what it was that compelled her down and kept him protecting his unemployed ass. 

"I thought... it would be different," she confessed. "We're older, I'm not IRA, you're not CSS. We could try again, be better."

"Or kill each other."

"Or kill each other," Fiona conceded. "So what now?"

"We're not picking out china patterns," Michael said quickly. 

"You would have to believe in actual dishes first."

"You don't need dishes for yogurt and take-out. Besides, I have dishes."

"Not enough. You also don't even have a house. I can't live in a warehouse loft." 

"Not really making a convincing case for me to buy a house- Ow!" Her nails dug sharply into his palm. "Fi!"

"Sorry," she said sweetly, not meaning it at all. "You know what I mean, Michael."

"I know." he smiled in the dark as her fingers rubbed at the marks her nails had made. "We get out of here. We get your antidote. The rest comes later."

"Fair enough." She squirmed in the dark, moving away from him as far as the cuffs would allow and he frowned at the chill against his side where she had been resting. 

"What are you doing?" He couldn't see, no matter how hard he tried. He felt her hand on his wrist, fingers around the cuff, and then it popped free. "How-"

"Hair pin, Michael," Fiona said patiently. "Always carry one."

"Zip-tie," Michael countered. "How did you get free?"

"Exposed screw, cut right through it," she explained. 

"When?" he asked suspiciously. 

"About three minutes after we started moving." She found something to cut the zip-tie on his wrist and sat back once he was free.

He rubbed at his wrists, getting the feeling back, and glared half-heartedly into the dark. "You're an evil woman, Fiona."

Michael didn't have to see her to know she was grinning. "You love me."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed, standing. "I do."

He did love her. When they got through this, and they would, he'd make sure to prove it to her. At least twice, maybe even three times. 

And if he got a few new scars... well he knew a woman who was just crazy about them. 

 


End file.
